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Good

When someone close to you is in bad health or in the hospital, the rest of the world seems rather far away. My dad is undergoing yet another surgery in the coming days, the latest health crisis in what seems an unending series of problems he’s had over the last several years.

While he was in the hospital this weekend, the doctors all took the holiday, with the exception of one woman, who my family was grateful for. So today will be a series of post-Fourth meetings with them, all fresh from their barbeques, to plot the course ahead. Another procedure to open up another clogged part of his body will follow, hopefully with success.

Through it all, we ask my father how he feels. “Good,” he says. You could hit him with a rubber mallet and ask him the same question. You’d get the same answer. He’s not one to complain.

So while the Mexican elections continue to be disputed, the President changes his mind about immigration, and the world spins on it’s axis a little hotter each day, we’ll be focusing on the big dog in a little bed in Massachusetts, hoping to hear him say he’s good again after the next procedure.